


In The Pines

by TheTiniestTortoise



Series: Tales from the Dusty Trail (Tumblr Prompt Fills & Requests) [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Outdoor Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:33:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21617665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTiniestTortoise/pseuds/TheTiniestTortoise
Summary: Young John Marston and bathgirl!reader get a little...hot and bothered for each other.
Relationships: John Marston/Reader
Series: Tales from the Dusty Trail (Tumblr Prompt Fills & Requests) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1557991
Comments: 4
Kudos: 61





	In The Pines

**Author's Note:**

> Anon asked: "Can I help you?" for John, because I read it as snarky, and that's SO him. Also some smut, pretty please?"

**River Junction, Utah**

**1894**

_“My friends ‘n I got a camp not too far outta town. Out by that big fork in the river.”_

_“Yeah? You some kinda rugged outdoorsman or somethin’?”_

_“Nah. Not quite…”_

His words echo through your head as you guide your horse off the dirt road, into the edge of a thick swatch of juniper trees that cover the scraggy hillside. You can see that fork in the river just over the side of the shallow cliff if you sit up tall enough in the saddle, the water’s surface reflecting some light here and there from the big almost-full moon that hangs low in the sky.

River Junction has always been your home, and it’s a small town, nestled as it is in the mountainous Utah wilderness. So when new folk ride through, it usually gives the locals something to talk about for a few weeks.

You’d caught a glimpse of him riding through town with three other men, all older, before you’d ducked inside The Bison to get ready for your shift; you were a waitress and a bath girl at the saloon-slash-boarding house, freshly nineteen with a bit of a wild, rebellious streak that kept your folks awake at night more often than not.

It wasn’t necessarily their fault; you’d found a scrap from a newspaper article when you were still young detailing the outrageous exploits of an infamous lady gunslinger by the name of ‘Black Belle’, and the thrill of a life like that had taken hold of you immediately. That kind of power, that kind of undaunted showmanship? That kind of freedom? It sent your imagination soaring. You’d collected every spare bit of information about her and her ilk you could find since then.

_“You look like a girl who knows how to have a good time.”_

_“And you look like a fella who can’t have any kind of a time at all without gettin’ dirty as hell. I could have a bath run for you by the time you finish that beer, cowboy.”_

_“Yeah? You gonna join me in it, too?”_

_You’d smirked, flashing your eyes at him from under kohl-covered lashes. “Ain’t allowed. I can give you a real good scrub, though.”_

You’d done exactly that, and couldn’t quite believe your eyes when you saw him all squeaky-clean thanks to your attentive care. Dark hair, dark scruff on his sunburned face. Its patchiness indicated he wasn’t much older than you; a young man trying a bit desperately to _seem_ older and, most likely, far more savvy than he actually was.

He _was_ handsome, though. And he would not stop flirting with you. His voice made him sound older than he was; made you try to hide toothy smiles whenever he said something particularly provocative about ditching your dress and joining him in the large tub. You’d almost done it, too, after you’d gotten up the nerve to drag the bath sponge tantalizingly all the way up his inner thigh and he’d kissed you in a quick and boyish way that quickly made you fall even harder.

Young love or young lust, you aren’t quite sure which it is that’s brought you all the way out here, now; and to be honest, you don’t spend much time dwelling on it. You readjust the hat that sits jauntily atop your coiled hair, thinking about the way he whispered in your ear every time you’d bent down to wash a particularly hard-to-reach part of him.

Dismounting amidst the junipers, you think you can hear the faint sound of music on the breeze. You pause, palms resting on your horse’s flanks, angling your head to hear better. Yes, it sounds a bit like a guitar. You think this must be the cowboy’s camp.

You tie the reins neatly around one of the trees and make your way deeper into the thicket, holding up your skirts so that they don’t get caught on any prickly weeds that may be creeping through the underbrush.

The sound of a raspy throat being cleared up ahead makes you stop in your tracks. You try to breathe quietly through your nose, squinting in the darkness to try and see whoever might be out there between the thick boughs of the trees.

“Aw, son of a bitch!”

You recognize the voice; your dirty, handsome stranger. Your eyes move to where it came from, and you can just distinguish his shape in the darkness.

“Goddamn… _Boadicea!_ Goddamn Arthur, lettin’ that horse take the biggest shits I ever seen, anywhere the hell she feels like it…” he curses and mutters to himself and you see him shuffling in the darkness, trying to wipe his boot off in the scrub grass and needles that litter the ground.

You have to stifle a small snort of laughter, ducking in beside one of the junipers as your heart starts to race. It’s exhilarating, coming out here to find him like this. You spy a cluster of berries dangling heavy from one of the branches beside you and begin plucking a small handful, catching your lip in your teeth as a naughty idea crosses your mind.

You glance out from around the tree to see his dark silhouette more at rest now. Seems he managed to get his boot cleaned off. A little spark of light blazes into being suddenly and then you see the end of a cigarette glowing red in the darkness as it’s lit. Plucking up one of the berries from your palm, you square up and toss one.

“Huh!?” The boy startles as it bounces off one of his broad shoulders. You can just make out the way he angles his head up, searching the tree branches above where he stands.

A minute later you send another berry flying in his direction.

He curses, tilts his head to the sky again. Huffing out a breath full of smoke, he shuffles away from his spot, intent on getting to a clearing where there are no more high boughs to keep dropping their fruits on him.

You stifle another small giggle and hide behind your tree once more, squeezing your eyes shut for a few moments. A very small voice in your head tells you he could easily shoot you with the rifle he’s carrying; if you spook him, it could go very badly. Somehow, that only seems to add to the thrill.

You inhale the piney scent of juniper as you open your eyes and angle yourself around the tree to see where he’s moved off to.

“Can I help you, young lady?”

You gasp and spin around, and in a moment of blind fear you send the rest of the berries hurtling at him. You hadn’t even heard him skirt up behind you in the few moments you’d taken to collect yourself.

He flinches and angles his head and barks out a low laugh as he gets pattered with the hard little berries. _“Jesus_ , okay, you got me! Fastest gun in the west, you are,” he says with some emphasis as he slings the rifle over his shoulder and suddenly looks at you in a deeply curious and inquisitive way.

You, on the other hand, are a little busy trying to stifle the rapid thumping of your heart in your chest. You clap a hand over your breast and double over for a moment, breathless and giddy from being snuck up on by this mysterious boy. “Holy shit…!”

He takes a step closer, mouth ticking up into a barely contained grin when he hears you cursing so easily. “What the hell are you _doin’_ out here?”

You finally straighten yourself, trying to regain some of the poise you could have sworn you came out here with. Your eyes flick upwards and you reach up to retrieve the gray, broad-brimmed hat from your head and transfer it onto his, having to stand on your tip-toes to do so. “Brought you somethin’.”

He blinks in confusion. “You came all the way out here. In the middle of the night. To bring me a _hat?”_ That silly, incredulous grin hasn’t left his face. In fact, you swear it might have widened a smidgen, though it’s hard to tell as he brings the cigarette up just at that moment to take a drag.

You shrug, bunching up your skirts to take a few sauntering steps around where he stands, eyeing the gun that sits at his back. “Noticed you got a sunburn, earlier.” You can feel his eyes following you. You worry your lip again. “Guessin’ you ain’t got a woman here to make sure you’re ridin’ out with everything you need.”

He scoffs softly, turning so he’s facing you, taking another step closer as he tosses the end of the cigarette away carelessly. “I ain’t got a woman, no. If that’s what you’re askin’…”

Your eyes dart back up to him, taking in his form. Broad shoulders, narrow waist. Long arms, long legs. Memories of what he looked like without the burden of clothes suddenly flood your mind, and you feel your cheeks heating up. You curl your hands around the hem of your shawl to give them something to do.

“Guessin’ you ain’t got a man keepin’ you warm nights, if you’re out here deliverin’ hats to fellas like me…” He takes another step closer, forcing you to take a step back until your shoulder bumps up against the rough bark of a tree.

You look up to meet his gaze, unflinching, though your heart pounds against your ribs with enough force you think he should be able to hear it. “No, no man,” you reply with a small shake of your head as he slowly leans down over you. “I do want somethin’ from you, though. In exchange for the hat.”

“And what’s that?” he breathes softly, lips hovering mere inches from yours.

“What’s your name, stranger?”

A small chuckle escapes him. “John. John Marston,” he mutters just before he closes the rest of the gap between you, mouth meeting yours with that same boyish tenderness that had so surprised you back at The Bison. There is more enthusiasm now, though; and much more intent.

You react readily, your fingers uncurling from your shawl to smooth against the planes of his chest instead.

He blindly unshoulders the rifle, angling his body in such a way that he can let the gun slip gently to the ground and not have it accidentally go off. It is a very endearing gesture, the way he contorts himself so clumsily for a moment. But only for a moment, and then he is pressing up against you in earnest, a knee slipping between your legs, large palms smoothing up the sleeves on your arms.

You moan softly against his lips as his thigh meets the apex of your legs through all the layers of fabric. It sends a shiver running up through you and you clutch at the open collar of his shirt, nipping at his lip with your teeth.

“Goddamn, darlin’,” he mumbles against your lips before inhaling a shaky breath, pulling away just enough to look down and see your face as he angles his leg, rubbing his thigh against you with a delicious friction that has you practically whimpering against him.

That grin returns to his lips and he surges forward once more, satisfied with the reaction and determined to produce many more like it. “Moment I saw you in that saloon, I knew I wanted you,” he mutters thickly against your neck in between hot little kisses. “Goddamn gorgeous, ‘n funny…’n a mouth on you like a sailor…”

You thread your fingers up into his long hair, encouraging the praise, your hips moving against his thigh seemingly of their own accord. “Well, ain’t you a charmer,” you manage to retort as your pulse flutters at the feeling, at the touch of his rough and calloused hands all over you, and you realize you want this handsome stranger John Marston quite badly.

A gasp escapes you as you feel him buck back in response, and the next thing you know his mouth is on yours again, tongue grazing your teeth, sucking and nipping at your lip in a dizzying way. You drop your hands to his abdomen, trailing fingers down the sinewy muscle there to hook over his belt.

You can feel him grinning against your lips and he growls his approval, his own hands slipping up to cradle your face as you get to work ridding him of his gun belt and pulling his suspenders from his shoulders. You don’t stop to think about how this is going to work. All you can focus on is the sudden, hollow ache that has developed deep within you, and the only remedy for it, which is thankfully to be soon at hand.

He hisses in a sharp breath when your hand finally makes its way in under his waistband to claim your prize, and it is every bit as impressive as you’d hoped. The earlier teases and flirting in the bath had not revealed such intimate information to you, but now it is yours to do with as you please.

You find you quite enjoy pulling twitches and heavy breaths from John Marston, but he has no shortage of retaliatory weapons up his sleeves. He kisses you once more, deeply, before bending so that he can catch up the fabric of your skirts in his hands and slide it all up over your thighs.

He’s never done anything like this, brought a strange girl back to camp; never had a girl anywhere _near_ the camp, in fact, and especially when he’s supposed to be on guard duty? The danger of doing something so brazen, and the possibility of getting caught for it sends a heady shudder up through him, but he does not stop. No, the way you came all the way out here just for him, how could he ever stop?

He hooks his fingers around your bloomers and bends down to tug them down your legs, your skirts pooling back down around his arms. As you step out of your underthings, he bunches the silky fabric up once more, trailing his fingertips all the way up your blessedly bare legs. He inhales deeply, chasing his own hands, grunting at the musky scent of you now that you’re so exposed to him.

You gasp once more as his nose trails dangerously close to your womanhood and then ghosts up past as he straightens, holds your skirts bunched as best he can with one hand while he frees himself from his trousers with the other. You take on some of the burden, wrestling the unruly drapery of your clothing into your own hands so you can hike one leg up against his hip.

He catches your leg easily up under the knee with his free hand, holding it flush against his hipbone as he hovers above you. After a short beat where he seems to steel himself, he takes his cock in his other hand and nudges it against the slick heat between your legs.

You mewl softly, try to arch your hips up towards him, putting pressure on the sensitive piece of him that so sinfully begs for entry. He looks down at you with dark eyes, jaw clenching.

“What are you waitin’ for, John Marston?” you can’t help but goad this handsome boy, arching your hips once more.

Groans escape the both of you as he receives what he was waiting for, that last bit of permission needed to let himself sink into the beautiful heat of your body. Truth be told, he still only half-believes this is really happening at all. “Thinkin’ I was waitin’ to hear my name on your pretty lips…”

Your head falls back against the tree as he readjusts, supporting some of your weight, keeping your knee up flush against his hipbone. It allows him to satiate that hollow ache within you, burying himself deep before retracting his hips and snapping them forward once more.

You bite your lip hard to stop a cry from escaping, rolling your eyes up toward the stars that dot the sky. The last thing you want to do is alert his friends. This is a secret moment that belongs only to the two of you, and you delight in the prospect of keeping it that way. Another thrust pulls you out of the little bubble of your flitting thoughts and grounds you in the here and now.

His mouth covers yours once more to drown out any sounds you might be thinking of making, though he would be the first to admit he _desperately_ wants to hear them. He deems kissing you just as good though, hiking up your leg just a little higher, progressing from slow acclimation to a steady pull and press that almost makes him weak in the knees.

You finally let go of your skirts with one hand, reaching up to thread fingers into the hair at the back of his head, holding him close and breathing heavy. You accidentally knock his new hat off into the grass somewhere at your feet, only half-noticing. “Ooh, John—!” You cut yourself off with effort, thumping your head back against the tree.

“Mm…god- _damn,_ sweetheart,” he mutters into the crook of your neck, dragging his lips across what exposed skin there is and inhaling the flowery scent of whatever you use to wash your hair. It almost smells like roses.

“You know how to touch a woman, John Marston?”

“I, uh-“ he stutters, seemingly unable to process words for a moment, losing that cultivated machismo he’s tried to display up til now. “Yeah, I think—I think so.”

His hand leaves your hip to slink between your bodies, reaching a bit blindly, trying to figure out the best way to fit so that he’s not jostling himself too much. He soon finds that if he angles his hand and flattens it against your abdomen, he can extend his thumb downwards, reaching the treasured bundle of nerves that rests there.

You still end up reaching down, causing him to slow his pace as you gently adjust his thumb just a touch. You give him a nod and remove your hand and he gets back to work with renewed vigor, arching away from you slightly to give himself a more comfortable angle.

You tense the leg you still have on the ground, muscles all feeling coiled up as he works the rough pad of his thumb against you and chases down his own pleasure with small grunts and panting breath. You’ve got to give him credit; he is a bit inexperienced, but he wants to do a good job. He wants to make you feel as good as he does.

You end up having to clamp your own hand over your mouth to stop from making any unwanted sounds as he shifts on his feet and suddenly finds a _very_ nice angle; it feels like all your nerve-endings are filling up with electricity, like a heavy storm cloud ready to smite lightning upon the earth.

He groans and shivers and stutters, trying to maintain some kind of rhythm, but you’re so tight around him it’s sending what’s left of his brain into some kind of dizzying heights way high up where those stars sit in the sky. “Shit, I-“

“Mmnf!” You have to stifle your own moan as the wave of pleasure suddenly crests and overtakes you. Squeezing your eyes shut and bucking your hips into his, you’re sure your legs would be giving out if the reassuring strength of his arms weren’t there to hold you up.

“Ah, _Christ,”_ he whines as he feels your orgasm hit, and that’s the first time he’s _ever_ felt that, and it immediately sends him hurtling over the edge. He pulls back from you quickly and takes himself in his hand, stroking only once before he is spilling himself into the grass near his feet.

You stay there and catch your breath for a few minutes before he finally speaks up. “M’gonna put your leg down now.”

You inhale a big breath and nod, wincing slightly at the pull in the muscles it causes. When you are sure that your own two legs are enough to keep you upright, you quickly bend down to retrieve your bloomers, pulling them back on under your skirts.

John tucks himself back into his trousers and fixes his suspenders. He looks shy all of a sudden, finally finds the wherewithal after a solid minute to meet your eyes. “M’sorry. I…I’d like to ask you to stay the night, but…”

You can’t help but smile at the genuine tone of his sentiment, but you hide it as you bend down to retrieve the hat you’d bought for him. You almost go to hand it back, but you second guess yourself, keeping it in your hand. “Not to worry, Mr. Marston. After all, it was raining and you were so kind as to offer a lady your hat to help keep her dry. You’ll just have to come call at the Bison again sometime to retrieve it,” you posit a little coyly as you place the hat back on your own head.

He studies you for a few moments in the darkness before lowering his gaze and chuckling softly. He reaches up to rub the back of his neck, the way he’s always seen Arthur do whenever the older man gets nervous or flustered. “I’d, uh…I think I’d like that, Miss.”


End file.
